Wednesday, September 5, 2007
South of the Highway
(I know everyone. I’m sorry. It’s been 2 weeks since my last blog posting and I’ve received more crap for this than the time I “accidentally” pulled the fire alarm in 7th grade. I swear, I didn’t do either on purpose.)
I wish I were South of the Highway. No, I am not referring to US1, the Turnpike or the Palmetto. I am referring to Route 27, the highway that runs through the Hamptons in Long Island, NY.
Quick lesson: Route 27 is like Flagler for rich people. In Miami, if you say your address is in the southwest, you’re probably safe... probably. If you say you’re in the northwest, you’ll get a dirty look and some kind of reference to being ghetto... or Venezuelan.
Well, the same can be said for Route 27. If you’re “North of the Highway,” you’re freggin’ rich and I hate you. You own a multi-million dollar home in the Hamptons. Your house is sick. Anyone in their right mind would gladly kill their first born child to live in your house that was probably featured in Better Homes and Garden or some kind of chick coffee table magazine. Oh yeah, you own a Porsche or two.
If you’re “South of the Highway,” you’re disgusting. Your house is so big and so expensive that an entire episode of Cribs wouldn’t do it justice. I’m talking helicopters, seemingly endless land with horses running wild and 10-times more toilets than asses in the house. Oh yeah, you own a Porsche or seven.
Why are you telling me this, Alex? Did you just watch “Homes you dream about owning while you sit in traffic listening to some dumbass with a hoochie accent on Power 96 talking about how she’s going to be live from Club Deep and it’s going to be off the chain” on the Travel Channel?
No, but I have seen that episode. In fact, it’s called my life! But thanks for asking.
I say this because I just spent my Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons. My boy Billy G set up a trip that included lots of relaxing, endless laughs and inside jokes, a $200 lunch that featured spaghetti and meatballs from Chef Boyardi, a waiter that tried to seduce us by offering sausage on our pizza, and if that wasn't enough - peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after midnight as a 65-year old man walked around in his boxers and flashed his man boobs.
Oh yeah, most importantly, it provided perspective on no matter how much I work, I will never be South of the Highway.
So why do we, the ditch diggers of the world, do it?
Five times a week “we” get up at 6:30am to sit in traffic and drag our feet to work. (I say “we” because we’re in this fight together. I actually get up at about 8:15am or 8:30am because I live near work. Score!)
Roughly eight hours later, “we” get back in our cars and back in traffic to rush home. Some have to stop and pick up the kids at school, daycare or abuela’s house. Then, go home and cook? Where’s the time to give our significant others a little bit of a “how’s your father?”
You want frills? I got frills for you. For Labor Day, “we – the ditch diggers of the world” head over to Miami Beach (cue the trance music) only to find it completely over crowded with under-aged girls that’ll get you three-to-five if the judge is in a good mood, and guys with spiky hair and fake gold fronts. (Again, I say “we” because we’re in this together. I didn’t go to the beach for Labor Day this year. I went to the Hamptons. Did I mention that?)
So what does it all mean, Alex? Are you complaining? Are you crying? What’s your point?
Damn it. Stop asking me so many questions. The fact of the matter is that I can’t listen to Power 96 ever again. I’m ruined. Do you hear me? Ruined!
As I stepped out of the fairy tale that those fuckers call their life, I realized that there’s only one way I can be South of the Highway. No, it’s not through my writing. Not through my handsome good looks. Not through my crack wit or my boyish charm. (For the record, my mom wrote those characteristics.) It’s by pulling the improbable.
That’s right. I need to find me a sugar momma. Consider this: Alex Martinez is serving notice. If you’re a rich bitch that’s not horrible to look at, doesn’t have a severely saggy vagina, can paint her lips inside the lines, doesn’t have cats, is considered bendy for her age and has a hot granddaughter that wouldn’t judge me for what I’m doing to her grandmother on a bi-weekly basis, then reach out and touch me.
Only problem is that I might have to go South of the Highway on her. Ugh… I guess you take the good with the bad.
Overpriced Spaghetti and Meatballs, here I come!